


we'll walk this age together

by sherlockislovely



Series: love, after all... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older John, Older Sherlock, at the end?, but also not so sad?, im sorry, mentioned minor character death, randy old men, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 13:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockislovely/pseuds/sherlockislovely
Summary: “Still here then,” John mumbled as his cocoon of Sherlock fell away and he glanced down at his feet at the end of the bed. Pastel blankets and pastel walls and pastel cups with pastel pitchers. Sherlock’s fingers paused on his cheek for a moment before continuing their path.





	we'll walk this age together

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I just don't know where this came from.

The sun was rising as Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, cool fingertips tracing temple to jaw with an enormous affection. His touch felt like home and everything wonderful.

John blinked his eyes open and frowned at the white ceiling obscured by Sherlock’s greying curls.

“Still here then,” John mumbled as his cocoon of Sherlock fell away and he glanced down at his feet at the end of the bed. Pastel blankets and pastel walls and pastel cups with pastel pitchers. Sherlock’s fingers paused on his cheek for a moment before continuing their path.

“For a doctor, you have a very strange disdain for hospitals.”

“I’ve been here for five weeks, I’ve had enough.” John sighed, looking over at Sherlock. For a man in his upper 50’s, he still looked frustratingly young, if you ignored the mostly grey hair. Well, even then, the grey hair seemed to work for him. He looked tired, though. “Did you go home last night?”

“No, I was reading, and it got too late,” Sherlock replied. John gave him a pointed look.

“By that, you mean you were watching me sleep in that creepy way you do and you lost track of time.”

“Semantics,” Sherlock said, but his eyes crinkled at the edges as he tried to hide a smile. John’s heart ached with that, but in a very deep, good way. It was gone much too quickly as Sherlock’s expression became more serious, “Do you have physio today?”

“You know I do.”

“Are you going to try this time?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and tight. John looked away and bit his lip. Sherlock sighed and leaned away slightly. “I’m meeting Mycroft today. I’ll be back in a few hours, dinner time at the latest.” He pressed a kiss to John's temple before pulling away and throwing on his coat.

John stared at the door long after Sherlock had left through it.

 

ooo

 

Sherlock looked out the window of the cab as he absentmindedly fiddled with the petals of the lilacs in his hand. It was an early spring morning and the hills were starting to turn green in spots. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass.

The cab pulled up to the house and he took a deep breath before exiting and making his way up the winding path to the side of the building. The path emptied into a well-maintained cemetery. A small, in-the-family type setting. He walked the familiar route to the oak tree in the center of the plot.

Mycroft was already there, standing with his hands in expensive suit pockets. He didn’t seem to notice Sherlock’s approach as he stared at the gravestones near the base of the tree.

“Hello, brother,” Mycroft said without even turning his head.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock placed the lilacs in his hands on the ground in between the two gravestones, “Mum, Dad.” The two brothers stood in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Mycroft broke the eerie quiet.

“I have something I’d like to discuss.”

Sherlock took a breath, “You want to sell the house.”

“I… Yes. Unless you and John-“

“You know we’re not able to move right now. If ever.” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and realized he needed to take a shower. He sighed, “Sell the house. Mum would’ve hated the idea of it sitting empty.”

“My thoughts as well.”

As they started back down the path to the road, Mycroft started again, “How is John doing?”

“He’s stubborn. Tired and frustrated.”

“Yes, you seem a bit of that as well.” Mycroft dipped his chin slightly, reading into Sherlock’s composure, “John is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. It was a rather… small stroke, after all.”

Sherlock took in a few shuttering breaths and turned his gaze to Mycroft, “Sentiment?”

Mycroft looked up to the hill where his parents were buried and sighed, “Yes, well.”

 

ooo

 

When Sherlock eventually made his way back to the hospital room, John was lying on his back in the bed, eyes closed. He was half-asleep if the rise and fall of his chest were to be believed. Sherlock took a deep breath before entering the room, setting down the paper sack on the table at the end of the bed, just as John’s eyes blinked open slowly and lazily.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice slurred slightly as he reached out his hand. Sherlock sat down in the chair to John’s right and allowed John’s hand to cover his over the sheets on the edge of the mattress.

“Hello, love,” Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers and gave him a small smile, “How are you feeling? Physio go well?”

“Define well.” John tilted his head onto his shoulder in a way that reminded Sherlock eerily of a puppy looking through the shop window. The detective sighed, though it was more affectionate than annoyed. John peeked a lopsided smile, “It actually went okay. Walked across the room twice without help.”

Sherlock lit up with a ghost of a smile. He brought the doctor’s hand to his mouth and held it there, not quite kissing the fingers, but the sentiment was there all the same. When he spoke, it was mumbled into the skin of war-worn hands, “I brought ziti. From Angelo’s.”

“Ah, how is he? In better health than me, I bet. Lucky old bastard.”

Sherlock gave him a look as he stood once again to take the containers of food out of the sack, “His grandson was born last week. Handsome, apparently, though I think the opinion is biased. I doubt he escaped the inevitability of every newborn to look like a turnip.”

“Turnip? That’s a new one,” John said as Sherlock pushed the rolling table further up the bed and opened a container of ziti, placing a fork down beside it. He looked up from the proceedings directly as Sherlock. “I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to do it.”

“I’m trying to distract your mind from your insistent self-pity. I do have to do it. Because I know you and I know you’ll drown in it if left to your own devices.” Sherlock settled back down in the side chair, propping his feet up on the bed, hands supporting a container of food. He brought a bite of pasta up to his mouth before nudging John’s hip with his foot. John huffed and turned to his own food. Funny how their roles had reversed on the whole eating debate. He picked at the cheesy concoction for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke again, “Rosie called. Said you weren’t answering.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday.” Sherlock pointed out. John didn’t reply, only holding his fork over the ziti as he stared forward. Sherlock decided to break the silence once again, “She and Trent picked a date. You’d know if you would answer your daughter’s calls. Or return them.”

“Trent? You mean Travis?”

“I- Yes. Either way.” Sherlock waved a hand in the air as John shook his head affectionately.

“Do you genuinely have troubles with names or is it just the Lestrade family?”

Sherlock gave a cheeky grin but ignored the question, “Do you think she’ll take his name? We’ll have no more Holmes-Watson’s to proceed us. Does the world really need more Lestrade’s?”

John laughed at that, a quiet chuckle, but it was heavenly on Sherlock’s ears. He hadn’t heard that laugh in a while. His hand found John’s again as the ziti was set aside. His thumb stroked John’s wrists, swiping over his pulse over and over. He froze suddenly, causing John to frown.

“What?” He asked, which Sherlock ignored, only loosening his grip.

“Hold your hand out,” Sherlock said, lifting John’s wrist lightly until John responded and held it up himself.

“Sherlock, what is-“

“Look at your hand,” Sherlock said, a flicker in his eyes. John furrowed his brow but looked anyway. He turned his hand over, and then back, then shook his head, disbelieving.

“The tremor’s gone.”

“The tremor’s gone,” Sherlock echoed, and his expression hinted that he would’ve picked John up and spun him around if he could. John felt a prickling in his eyes and only realized what it was when a tear rolled down his cheek. Sherlock’s face went from elated to worried in half a second.

“What? What’s wrong?” He asked, raising a hand and tracing John’s jaw. John let out a wet laugh and shook his head.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” He reached his hand up to his face to cover Sherlock’s hand with his own and closed his eyes. “It’s progress. It’s good.”

“Very good,” Sherlock said, leaning in and placing a kiss at the doctor’s temple. “Brilliant, even.”

John closed his eyes and leaned further into Sherlock’s touch, tears meeting with slender fingers, “Christ, I’m a mess. I don’t know how you deal with me.”

“A beautiful mess,” Sherlock said, pressing another kiss slightly lower toward John’s ear, “Gorgeous, lovely, amazing mess.”

“Jesus, stop. You’re like a goddamn teenager.” John said, a smile gracing his face as he opened his eyes again.

Sherlock gave nothing but a chuckle response.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. For putting you through this.” John said after a few moments of silence. Sherlock groaned quietly, as he had done all the previous times this particular subject had risen.

“You’re not putting me through anything. It is what it is. And when it’s all done, we’ll go back to the flat and make love on the sofa.”

John spluttered a bit and cleared his throat, “Sounds… ambitious. Perhaps the bed, instead, though. It was getting pretty difficult to make use of the sofa, even before all this.”

“Alright. Whatever gets you off. Literally. Well, both of us I suppose-” Sherlock smiled and let his words be wiped away as John shut him up with lips pressed firmly against his.

The sun was setting as Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, cool fingertips tracing temple to jaw. His touch felt like home and everything wonderful.


End file.
